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“I love you just as much, Tim.”
Why couldn't Bruce understand that this wasn't about love, not really? People loved others and still hurt them or neglected them all the time! Jack and Janet had taught Tim that at an early age and Dick gave him a refresher just a year ago. Love meant nothing when you forgot to call and never made time to hang out, and it sure as hell didn't make up for taking someone's identity away before suggesting therapy for daring to say that a superhero might not be as dead as previously thought in spite of the very convincing evidence that said otherwise. As if Batman – Bruce – would've been the first to come back from the dead or not be dead to begin with.
Tim would rather scrape out his vocal chords with a spoon than voice his feelings right now, but he knew that Bruce wouldn't drop this subject until they talked about it. He wasn't the poster child for communication, but when the man got it in his head that they needed to discuss something, he was like a dog with a bone. And if he was being completely honest with himself, Tim had been sitting on these words for months now while they just kept curdling and festering in his gut because he refused to let them out. Maybe vomiting them now would finally let his stomach rest and help him feel settled again, just a tad. So instead of brushing Bruce off like he usually would, Tim replied:
“And I know that! But sometimes… it's like… Dick is the first kid, you know? And Jason is the one who died then came back, Cass is the only daughter, Damian is the biological kid, Duke is the newest. What am I? The neighbours’ kid who forced his way into the Robin costume to keep you alive and non-lethal. The stranger who reminded you of Jason every day I showed up for patrol, who you didn't want there. And I knew that, Bruce. I was very much aware of how much you wanted me gone. And I wanted to leave, too, so many times. I selfishly enjoyed being Robin and revelled in every smile or bit of praise you threw my way, but I was always aware of just how much I didn't belong, of how much pain I brought you, and how quickly you'd have traded me being there for Jason being alive again if you could.”
Tim took a shaky breath in, holding it for a few seconds in an effort to calm his racing heart even if he knew it wouldn't help. He knew his hands would be shaking long after this conversation was over and he walked away, the way they always did when he was forced to actually confront people and talk about his feelings instead of bottling it all up and letting it out in the privacy of his shower only. “Because let's be honest,” he laughed without humour, “even now, I know there's a part of you that would take never having me in your life at all if it meant that Jason never went to Ethiopia to begin with. And that's fine. I wasn't my own parents’ favourite child and I was the only one they had; I can't expect to ever compare to the likes of Dick or Jason or anyone, really.”
And that was the problem, wasn't it? That Tim had never felt like he was enough. Never the first choice (or the second, or the third, or or or), always more of a consolation prize or the next best thing in the absence of something better. He knew there was nothing he could do to please the people in his life when they had never wanted him – no amount of perfect grades and exemplary behaviour at elite parties had ever made his parents stay home longer or call more often, and Tim could have trained with God himself, been the perfect sidekick, an extension of Batman himself, and it still wouldn't have filled the Jason-shaped hole in Bruce's heart – and yet he still tried. He couldn't help himself. He was destined to chase after people and work himself into an early grave to prove that he was good enough, that he was the best, the smartest, the toughest, the quickest, and if he wasn't, then he found something else he excelled at, some other way to be useful, or else made himself excel at it until he was indispensable.
Timothy Drake never felt wanted so he had to settle for being needed. But the thing about being needed was that, eventually, that need stopped. People adapted, became immune to what they lacked and developed ways to survive without it, and Tim always ended up being obsolete. Or something better came along and rendered Tim obsolete, like Jason coming back to life or Damian becoming Robin – what need did Bruce have for Tim then?
When he looked back on the time he became Robin, Tim remembered that lonely kid he had been and wondered how much Bruce had really needed him and how much it had actually been Tim who needed Bruce, needed Robin, needed a purpose and something to make him feel alive and important, instead of the ghost drifting aimlessly through life that he had been for the previous thirteen years.
Bruce looked pained. He looked sad and guilty and Tim hated it because this was why he never talked about the things that rattled around in his brain. He wasn't telling Bruce all this to make him guilty, there was no point. What was done was done. Bruce couldn't take back those first painful years of their partnership and Tim couldn't suddenly become the son that was wanted.
“Tim, I… no, that's not… I wouldn't…”
Tim cut him off. “It's okay. I'm not accusing you of anything, Bruce.” And he really wasn't. The man couldn't help how he felt, and it wasn't like Tim had fostered the parental instinct in Bruce when it came to Tim either. For Tim to be needed by others, he had to not need others in return. It meant independence and submitting flawless reports on time and taking care of his injuries on his own after every patrol. It meant going home to his empty house instead of taking Alfred up on his invitations to remain in the Manor and faking an entire uncle so that Bruce wouldn't feel the need to adopt him. It made sense that, while claiming and maybe even believing that he loved Tim just as much as the others, Bruce saw Tim less like a child that needed him – his free praise and smiles that he showered Damian and Cass with, his full-belly laughs at Jason’s jokes, the fond hair pets and shoulder pats that he gave Dick and Duke – and more like a family member that was there but could be put to the side for the time being because, well, Tim could take care of himself.
“So I'm fine,” he continued with a smile, picking up where they left off before Tim went and let his inner thoughts loose like an idiot, “and I don't expect you to drop everything and show up at my door to hang out, or talk to me about my photography, or ruffle my hair when you walk past me in the hallway. I was never meant to be what the others are. I know that.”
It was obvious that Bruce was left in a daze after Tim’s earlier words and the whiplash-like change in attitude wasn't helping matters. That was fine by Tim. It meant he could escape this conversation quicker and retreat to his apartment, safe from useless heart-to-hearts and ugly truths ripped out of his throat.
The man blew out a heavy breath, dragging a hand over his face, and when he looked back at Tim he seemed more tired and aged than usual. Again, not the reason Tim had spilled his guts. He hated how guilty he felt at the knowledge that, intentional or not, he had put that look on Bruce's face.
“I never realised how badly I messed up with you,” he murmured, making Tim frown. That wasn't where he thought this was going. “I know I fucked up because I wasn't in a good place when we met, but Tim… You aren't worth any less than your siblings. And you don't have to do something or be something in particular to matter to me. Being Tim is enough.”
Tim scoffed. Yeah, right.
“That's a lie and you know it,” he retorted. “If that was true, then you would call me even when you don't need to ask me for help with WE because you're busy and you'd take my side every once in a while when I get in a fight with Damian and oh, that's right, you wouldn't have acted like I committed murder after the whole Captain Boomerang thing! Jason actually killed people and showed up at the Tower in that ridiculous dollar-store Robin outfit with every intention to beat me up for no other reason than because he felt insecure and he shot Damian! I don't see all that judgement thrown his way.”
Tim hated that he had raised his voice and hated how worked up he was getting. He had promised himself that his goal here wasn't to blame Bruce for anything or to guilt trip him. He had thought that he was fine with Bruce's treatment. The fact that he'd been lying to himself all this time without realising it didn't sit right with him, dammit. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “So don't tell me that I'm enough. As if I haven't had to steal and fight and out-stubborn my place into this family.”
“You're right,” Bruce sighed. “You are different from the others and I've treated you differently because of it. I've always had… big expectations from you, I think. Or rather, different standards. I've been holding you to the same ones I hold myself to and I forget how young you are and how unfair it is to treat you like you're me. I see so much of myself in you, Tim, much more than I see in your siblings, and I forget that you aren't me. You're your own person and while we are similar, you're so much better than me, so much more than I could ever be.”
Tim’s heart leapt into his throat and he stood there, speechless. There was a lump in his throat and a stinging in his eyes that he refused to give course to, but his hands were shaking and his breathing wasn't steady, and these words were hurting him viscerally, like open heart surgery without anaesthetics. They were words he had been yearning for down to the marrow of his bones since before he even knew who Bruce Wayne was, words that a lonely kid wanted to hear even if he didn't know what they were , but now that he was hearing them he didn't know what to do with it. Suddenly, Tim wanted Bruce to stop talking, to take it all back and stop the burning in his chest. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't. But Bruce kept talking.
“You're so much more open than I could ever be, sweetheart. You attract people to you so easily and make them feel loved and wanted and appreciated, such a charismatic boy, such a good leader. And you don't like talking about what bothers you but you hate it when the people you love are hurting, so you always listen to them and help them out, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you feel. You're strong and relentless and brave, and too smart for your own good sometimes, but you're never too prideful to admit when you're overwhelmed and need someone to help you out. I've seen you do incredible things all on your own but I've also seen you reach out to your teammates or your siblings and ask for help. And you're so in control of yourself, knowing exactly how far to go and when to stop before you cross a line or make a mistake you can't take back, and that scares me.” Bruce trailed off into a murmur.
“Why?” Tim managed to ask, voice croaky.
“Because I forget you aren't me sometimes,” he replied, repeating the same words from earlier, “and all I can think is how close you got to doing something that you'd spend the rest of your life hating yourself over. I wasn't angry that you almost killed Boomerang, Tim. I was afraid of how close I’d been to seeing another son go down a spiral I couldn't pull him out of. You aren't a killer, Tim, and you wouldn't survive becoming one.”
There were tears in his eyes now as he looked at Bruce, unable to formulate a sentence.
“I don't call to ask how you're doing because I know the answer: you never tell me when you're not doing fine. And I know you like your solitude and hate feeling smothered so I try to give you space and let you come to me on your own terms,” Bruce continued, mercifully ignoring Tim’s tears and momentary speechlessness. “And I never take sides when you fight with Damian because I don't feel like it'd be fair to either of you but I always pull him aside in private and correct him when I think he crossed a line by saying or doing something to hurt you. You never stick around after those fights so I can't check in and make sure you're okay and the first few times I called to do it instead you changed the subject then hung up because you said you were busy.”
Bruce sighed, world weary and tired, and took one of Tim’s trembling hands in both of his to hold gently. Tim looked down at their clasped hands and tried to swallow down the sob stuck in his throat, failing when Bruce’s bigger, calloused thumbs started rubbing circles on the back of Tim’s scarred hand.
“I love you so much, Tim. And I'm not blaming you or accusing you of anything because I know you don't do it on purpose and it's not your fault, but you don't really let me, or anyone, love you. You deserve to be loved properly, sweetheart. I know I have my share of blame for building this perception of yourself and your worth, and I wish I could take it back. But I can't. All I can do is try to be better now, if you'll let me. I can't do that if you won't.”
Quietly sobbing now, Tim hiccuped, “I don't know how.”
“That's alright, we can figure it out together,” Bruce soothed and tugged on Tim’s arm gently until he was all up in Bruce’s space. A hand pulled his head down to Bruce's chest, ear over the beating heart housed there, while the other arm wrapped around his back and held him close. Tim couldn't stop crying, no matter how much he wished he would.
There was also this vague but persistent cloud of guilt looming over him, that whispered he didn't deserve this comfort, hadn't earned it, that he had simply guilted Bruce into being nice to him. He didn't know how to make it go away, had never had reason to try.
“You hold yourself apart from us,” Bruce whispered over Tim's head. The hand in his hair was gentle as it combed through the strands and the one on his back kept rubbing up and down, and Tim squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to block out the words. “I think it's your way of sparing us from worrying over you, or maybe you're trying to protect yourself from heartbreak. If you leave first then others can't abandon you, right? But it hurts, Tim. It hurts when you want to love someone that thinks you hate them. It hurts me to see you hurting and not being allowed to help.”
Tim didn't know what to say. Wasn't sure if there even was something to say in this situation. For all of Bruce's penchant for talking in grunts, he had an uncanny ability to eviscerate Tim with his observations when the stars aligned and he decided to use words.
“And if I let you in and you let me down, then what?” he eventually said. His voice was hoarse and wet from crying but he knew Bruce could hear him well enough.
“Why are you so sure I will?”
Tim scoffed weakly. “Mom and dad did. Dick did.”
“Sometimes,” Bruce began, pushing Tim away just enough to be able to hold his shoulders and look him in the eye, “we have to take a leap of faith. We could fall and break ourselves against the asphalt, and it would hurt like hell, but we could also fly. You're Robin, Tim, even if you don't wear the suit anymore, and I know you can fly. Let me show you, sweetheart.”
The clear blue of Bruce’s eyes was shining with determination and a plea, a plea for Tim to trust Bruce the way he did the first time he showed Robin how to fire off his grapple and fly over Gotham, as well as reassurance that he wouldn't fall to the ground and break into pieces upon contact. Tim wasn't sure he was capable of that trust, felt like he'd forgotten how to take a blind risk without ten contingencies and backup plans, and he still couldn't quite let go of the betrayal he felt when Dick refused to believe him.
But it killed him to keep living like this too. This limbo of being part of the family but always standing on the outskirts and the envy mingled with pain and guilt every time he watched his siblings have what he couldn't let himself reach for. How much longer could he take it? Loneliness had almost killed him once, before he booked a train and asked a childhood hero to return to Gotham, before he realised he had to be that hero since no one else was going to. He didn't want to wait around and see if it would succeed the second time around.
He straightened up his shoulders and took a deep breath in, then nodded once, head heavy and troubled, and tried to ignore how terrified he felt.
“Okay. Let's try.”